There's nothing a twenty- something year old loves more than a good party. If I could get paid to get drunk and rage every weekend, I'd have a full time job in no time. But with every party comes a trade- off. It's simply impossible to go out, have fun, and come out in the same state you first walked in with. As much as I love to party, I also hate it. Don't get me wrong, getting drunk and having a good time with friends is my forte, but with every party comes a sacrifice. And every one of those sacrifices makes me rethink why I ever go out in the first place....until, of course, I'm plastered enough to forget about all of them.\nClick here for the bad side of partying >\n1. Coat Check\nThose who ride the bus clearly respect the unwritten rule of lining up, and forming that single file line off of a "first come, first serve" basis. Likewise, the same happens at Tim Horton's every morning, people line up and wait their turn. So why is it always such a race for people to get their coats at the end of the night? The coat check girl isn't leaving until everyone is gone anyways, and hundreds of cabs will still be lined up outside, even if you don't get your jacket first. When I get home after a night of partying, the bruises on my arms aren't from drunkenly falling down the stairs, they're from fighting off the crazies that think getting their coat first is a competition. Coat check hurts.\n2. Haunting Photos on Facebook\nWaking up and creeping Facebook has become a routine event every morning after a wild night. Correction... waking up and untagging incriminating photos of myself on Facebook has become a routine. I tend to ask myself whether the person who posted those photos was even at the party to have a good time. Seems to me like he was just there to catch my friends and I at our prime. Thanks paparazzi!\n3. The Terrible Case of the Ringing Ears\nAttending a show that ends at 3am, actually means attending one that resumes at 7am- that's if after hours isn't included. My two hands can barely give me enough fingers to count on if I tried to remember all of the nights that I lay in my bed for hours, with my pillow around my head, and a duvet cover wrapped around my entire body. The ringing noise that steals my opportunity at a chance of sleep pains me. Sure the music is loud during the party, but not that loud that I should have to re-experience it, just this time in my bed, and without all the lights.\n4. Sweating Perfusively\nGet me a fan and some water! I can tell a venue is packed above capacity when my hair is on the verge of soaking and I can see the sweat stains on the person's shirt who's standing in front of me. Am I at a party, or did we all just run a half marathon?\n5. Unproductive Sundays\nAs often as I tell myself that my hangover is all in my head, and all I need to do is get out of bed and eat something, my body just doesn't allow it. No matter how many times I set my alarm or how many Advils I swallow, every Sunday, I find myself paralyzed in my bed. Even if I do manage to get up and go to the bathroom, those warm blankets with a seemingly magnetic force pull me right back in.\nFortunately, all it takes to forget about the awful sacrifices that I have to make is a day's rest and some comforting food. Montreal, what grinds your gears about a night of partying? Are the trade- offs so bad that you sometimes reconsider a night out?